


Let It Hurt

by Milky_Etoile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fic Exchange, I don't even know what happened anymore, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post Reichenbach, it has a life of its own, johnlockchallenges, the story ran away from me again, valeria2067
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milky_Etoile/pseuds/Milky_Etoile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John did not expect to get abducted. Nor did he expect to be told by his kidnapper that Sherlock Holmes was alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Hurt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valeria2067](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/gifts).



> This is for valeria2067, for the September 2012 [Tumblr JohnlockChallenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com) fic exchange.
> 
>  **Prompt:** "John sacrificing himself (could be his life, could be his body) to save Sherlock. Hopefully Sherlock saves him and comforts him after John suffers a bit. I just have a thing for brave, selfless, enduring John (and angry/BAMF and/or comfort-giving Sherlock). Any rating."
> 
> I'm not sure I actually managed to write what the requester's asking for but, here it is. I think I focused more on the latter half of the prompt. Um. Sort of? Agh. I haven't written in this fandom for months. Just. Read on. Please check the warnings before you do.
> 
> Not beta'd yet. Title from Rascal Flatts' song, "Let It Hurt". Also on my playlist while writing, "Come Wake Me Up".

The last thing John expected to happen on the way home from the surgery was him being knocked unconscious after getting hit by something sharp. He only had enough time to register that it was a dart that pricked him and that there was no one around in the alley he had decided to pass for a shortcut.

It was just his luck. Which had never been good in the first place.

When he came around, he found himself tied down to a very uncomfortable wooden chair. His limbs were tightly bound by ropes—tight enough that they were chafing his skin and almost blocking the blood circulation through them. His eyes were also covered by a blindfold and his mouth was stuck with a foul-tasting gag.

It was a classic kidnapping scenario, one that John was already so used to that his first reaction was to attempt a sigh and roll of his eyes. Another part of his brain was appalled at his blasé attitude to something this serious occurring but the part that was desensitized by more than a year of living with Sherlock Holmes merely scoffed at it. No doubt, Sherlock was already on the way to his rescue, but John wasn’t about to let the genius get another point against him in their unofficial competition of who-gets-to-rescue-who-first, which counted the one to be rescued escaping by himself—

His thoughts came to an abrupt stop as his brain finally felt mostly clear of the haziness the drug he was administered caused.

Sherlock was _dead_. He had been dead for three years, ever since his jump from St. Bart’s. So John shouldn’t be dwelling on sarcastic remarks about knights in shining armors and smug smirks framed by high cheekbones, especially when he was being _held hostage_ , for God’s sake.

Great, he was arguing with himself again to ignore the familiar pang of pain each thought of Sherlock brought about. His therapist was going to be _ever so glad_ with him when she found out.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Captain Watson,” a voice suddenly greeted from behind him, making him tense.

The blindfold and gag were deftly removed (John’s brain annoyingly supplied: _clearly someone who was used to keeping people hostage, possibly from the military with the way he used ‘Captain’ instead of ‘Doctor’_ ). He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the fluorescent light above him. Once his vision cleared, he saw that there was a man looking down at him with unfamiliar features and an expression of disdain. ( _Scars caused by knife wounds not treated properly, probably injuries from an illegal venture, dark bags under manic eyes caused by anxiety and…grief? Worn out coat but still obviously of high quality, still intact and clean, unlike his torn up jeans and stained white shirt, suggests it was given by someone wealthy a long time ago, supports the grief theory—_ John forced his brain to silence with a _shut up, Sherlock!)_

“Who are you?” he managed to ask, his voice coming out raspy and garbled from disuse and drugs addling his system.

The man let out a tut and crossed his arms, his posture seemingly relaxed (but John could tell otherwise: _military training_ ). “There’s no use pretending. I’m sure your beloved Sherlock told you all about me.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

The dark-haired man shook his head in disappointment. “You’re really not in a position to deny, Captain. I’m well aware that Sherlock Holmes is alive.”

His mind barely registered the venom dripping from the man’s voice at the mention of the late detective. What on earth was this man on about?

“He’s _dead_.” The doctor almost choked on the last word. “You’re delusional.”

Pain suddenly filled his senses as the man suddenly punched him, making him regret letting out an insult. John concentrated on the other male after noting that his nose was probably broken.

“I’m not gonna be fooled by your lies, _Watson_ ,” his captor hissed out, his anger apparent. “I _know_ it was Holmes who’s cut down Moriarty’s whole network these past years.”

A chill ran down John’s spine at the remembrance of the criminal mastermind before his mind registered the rest of the words. A little hope blossomed in his chest.

He inwardly stomped on it immediately. No. It must have been Mycroft’s doing. Of course, no matter how furious he was with the elder Holmes, he wasn’t about to rat him out.

“Dunno was you’re talkin’ about.” It was getting harder to make himself understood with his new injury. “ _He’s dead_.” Repeating that statement hurt more than his broken nose.

He was rewarded with a matching swollen eye as the man swung another fist at him.

“You’re a loyal _pet_ , Watson.” The taller male visibly attempted to calm himself. “If we were in a different situation, I’d respect you for it. But Holmes killed Moriarty.” An ominous smirk slowly tugged at his lips as he pointed a handgun at John’s forehead. “I could easily put a bullet through your head now—” he released the safety of the weapon, “—but that’s not enough revenge for me.” He dragged down the end of the barrel, grazing the doctor’s sweating skin before settling under his chin, forcing John to look directly at the man’s wild eyes.

“I’m going to _break_ you, Watson, slowly and painfully, until you’d be wishing for death,” he whispered vindictively. “And when I finally kill you, Sherlock Holmes will regret ever crossing Jim Moriarty.”

Before John could retort, he was hit once more, dragging him back to unconsciousness.

***

Miles away, a tall man with dark curls and high cheekbones let out an irritated huff when his phone started ringing as he twisted the arm of a buff, masked male and elicited a pained yell. He slammed his elbow on the masked man’s, the crack of a breaking bone barely audible with the shrill ringtone echoing in the dark shack. He hit the guy on the back of his head, knocking him unconscious, before ducking and kicking another figure that attempted to get behind him in the gut. Knowing that wasn’t enough to take his opponent out, he twisted to get behind his assailant, still in a crouch, and hit specific points of the legs while simultaneously tapping the answer button on his phone, which was sitting in his coat pocket.

“This better be important, Mycroft,” he ground out to the wireless headset that, miraculously, hadn’t fallen off in his scuffle. “In case you didn’t know, I’m in the middle of an ambush.” He ducked as someone else attempted to swipe at him with a knife. He backed away before sidestepping as another enemy threw a punch, ending up hitting the person with the knife.

“You need to get back here.”

The grave tone prompted him to make a quick work of the two remaining conscious thugs, kicking them to join the rest of their gang in a pile on the floor.

“Why?” he asked warily, still alert for any lingering enemies in the premises.

“Sebastian Moran has abducted John,” Mycroft explained succinctly. “I suspect he’s aware that you’re alive and are responsible for bringing down Moriarty’s empire.”

Worry filled him instantly but his voice was steady as he asked, “Transportation?”

“A jet is ready for you at the airport. A car will be picking you up in 5 minutes.”

“Do you know his location?”

The moment of hesitation on Mycroft’s part informed him of the answer.

“The only thing I asked of you was to watch over John.” His tone betrayed nothing but his words were accusing enough.

“Moran will not have him for long.”

The vehemence in his brother’s voice mollified him slightly. Mycroft may not let it be known but he was rather fond of John too.

He just hoped Mycroft was quick enough before all of his effort these past years became for naught.

***

John didn’t know how long he’d been held captive by the man, who, by now, had mockingly introduced himself as Sebastian Moran. He just knew that his chances of escaping on his own were lowering with every beating that his abductor dealt him each time he denied knowledge of Sherlock’s whereabouts. At least two of his bones were broken, another three fractured. He had numerous lacerations, burns and bruises, possibly also a concussion. He was starving and thirsty and he was losing the little strength he had with each minute.

But what made the torture worse for him was Moran’s insistence that Sherlock was alive. Every time he asked, John would tell him that the detective was dead; until Moran had enough of that answer and shouted at him repeatedly that he was alive, punctuating each bellow with a brutal lash of a black riding crop that reminded John painfully of his friend. Since then, John could only deny feebly that he knew where Sherlock was.

And that hurt more than any blow Moran threw at him. Because, if Sherlock had been alive for the past three years, taking down Moriarty’s web, why hadn’t he at least let John know if he couldn’t bring the doctor along?

Fortunately—or unfortunately—he couldn’t ponder on that for long.

When John next woke up, he found himself on a flat, metal surface, held down by metal chains by his wrists and ankles. The next thing he noticed was that he was completely naked, the now-familiar sharpness of a dagger gliding against his skin.

“We’re going to try something else today, John,” Moran told him with a malicious grin as he dragged the tip of the blade across John’s torso, lingering on the old scar on his shoulder—

—and suddenly stabbed it directly where the bullet had exited, making pain wrack John’s body. He forced himself not to let out a sound, biting his lower lip in his attempt to stop himself from screaming. But, when the dagger dug deeper and deeper, he couldn’t help a whimper from passing his lips.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” The dagger was twisted around, causing even more pain, making his body reflexively move in a vain effort to get away. “But it’s not enough,” Moran snarled, pulling out the dagger and digging it in John’s flesh again, drawing out a groan. “Holmes took Moriarty away from me, so I’ll take you away from him—in the worst way possible.”

John didn’t know what Moran was planning until he felt the sharp blade cutting into his anus. This time, he couldn’t help a scream from escaping him. His nerves were registering so much pain, it was a wonder he hadn’t passed out yet.

The dagger was pulled out and replaced by something significantly thicker and longer penetrated him, opening his hole further, making his wounds worse. He felt blood—so much of it—making Moran’s thrusts easier and his cuts sting worse at the friction.

He wasn’t aware he was screaming until Moran whispered harshly into his ear, “That’s it—louder. Scream louder, John. Let me know how much it hurts.”

John let out another cry before he mercifully passed out.

***

When Sherlock got off the jet, he was met by Mycroft. His older brother nodded and led the way to a black car, thankfully not a limousine this time.

“We just tracked down their location,” Mycroft informed him as they settled into the backseat. “We’ll be there within ten minutes.”

“Make it five,” Sherlock demanded with narrowed eyes.

“Very well.” The elder Holmes nodded to the driver. They were instantly off, blatantly disregarding traffic rules. Mycroft was immune to those anyway.

***

As soon as they arrived at the decrepit house, Sherlock stormed out of the car and shot the lock on the door with the silencer that Mycroft provided. Without preamble, he entered the building, searching for any clue of John’s whereabouts. A muffled shout directed him towards the door to the basement, which was unlocked. He opened it and cautiously headed down the stairs, following the alarming sound of a series of squelches and groans of pleasure.

When his blue eyes caught sight of Moran straddling a naked John— _his John_ —rage immediately flooded him. He pointed his gun and shot twice.

Moran was dead within seconds.

Sherlock ran over and pushed the man’s body off the metal table, taking in the sight of John covered in so much blood. Dread started to seep through him. He cupped the doctor’s cheeks gently and called out, “John, _wake up!_ ”

Somehow, miraculously, the shorter male _did_. Relief shot through Sherlock.

“Sh’l’ck?” John mumbled as his eye, the one not swollen, fluttered open. “’m de…dead.”

“No, John,” he disagreed as he picked the locks on John’s shackles with one hand and attempted to staunch the bleeding on his shoulder with the other. “Alive. Mycroft’s medics are on the way. Stay awake and shut up.”

“Can…” John’s breaths were becoming shallow. “Hur’s…” He promptly went back to unconsciousness.

Mycroft’s men thankfully arrived, immediately working on stabilizing the blonde.

Sherlock never left John’s side throughout the whole thing.

***

It took several hours for the doctors to patch up John the best they could. They informed the Holmes brothers that his heart stopped twice, amongst his other injuries. He was placed in ICU and remained there for a week until the worst of his wounds closed. As soon as he was transferred to a private room, Sherlock made himself a permanent fixture in the room.

It was another few days before John woke up from drug-induced sleep. Even then, it was only for a minute, his eyes barely focusing on Sherlock before he drifted back into slumber. Still, it was enough to assure the detective that John would at least eventually be fine physically.

He was aware of the problems John would have psychologically. The doctors hadn’t needed to confirm the possibility that Moran could’ve very well pushed John into insanity with the torture he dealt. Sherlock had made a mental catalog of each affliction on the former soldier’s body.

It almost made him regret killing Moran instantly.

For the next week, Mycroft only managed to persuade him to take a shower in the hospital room’s bathroom and eat little. John frequently got nightmares and, Sherlock found out, only calmed down with his words and his fingers carding through the blonde’s hair. The detective refused to leave him because of that—at least, he claimed that “John’s recovery would be impeded if he begins thrashing whilst experiencing PTSD”. Mycroft didn’t appear to be inclined to contest at all, merely arranging for clothes, food, books and files to be brought to his younger brother.

It was two weeks before John woke up lucid enough to recognize Sherlock as the taller man hovered somewhat uncertainly by the bedside. His eyes widened and his heart monitor beeped a bit faster. Before he could attempt to move or speak, Sherlock moved his hand to touch John, making sure to make it visible and his motion slow (he had read about victims being adverse to touch).

“Yes, it’s me, John,” he confirmed with an attempt at a smile. Considering John’s blank stare, he didn’t think he succeeded. “You’re alive. So am I. You’re not dreaming, else, you wouldn’t be experiencing pain or fatigue.”

He paused when he noticed John trying to speak. Reading his lip movement, Sherlock saw that he was asking, _“Why?”_

Sherlock knew exactly what he was asking. He gently laid his hand on John’s arm. The blonde barely twitched before looking away.

“Moriarty had snipers ready to shoot at you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I didn’t jump,” he explained, betraying none of his remorse. “I’ve been working to take down Moriarty’s network for the past three years.” He opened his mouth and momentarily closed it before he managed to ground out, “I…apologize. I was careless and let my efforts be known to Moriarty’s men. The fault lies completely with me. I shall do what I can to compensate for my transgressions.”

John, at this point, was looking at him again. He mouthed, _“Idiot.”_ Slowly, carefully, he moved his hand to cover Sherlock’s on his arm. _“Don’t leave again.”_

“Consider it done,” he said, swearing to himself he would make it happen.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I've made them so OOC. Sorry about that. I'm running on little sleep and too many things to do. I really shouldn't have crammed this orz
> 
> Anyway, tell me what you think. I hope it wasn't too horrible.


End file.
